


hold on to saint christopher, the sky is murderous red

by fits_in_frames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-01
Updated: 2007-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the seventh day, the sun sets blood-red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold on to saint christopher, the sky is murderous red

**Author's Note:**

> _the sun above the cotton grass_  
>  _is sinking down like lead_  
>  _the seagulls know the truth of it_  
>  _and scream it overhead_  
>  _hold on to saint christopher_  
>  _the sky is murderous red_  
>  _go to sleep, my one true love_  
>  _our glory lies ahead_  
>  {david gray // nos da cariad}  
> 
> 
> Prelude to "Born Under a Bad Sign".

On the seventh day, the sun sets blood-red.

He doesn't know where else to look. He's checked every motel between here and Texas, turned down all the side roads he could find. He calls everyone in his phone whose name he recognizes, again. Bobby tells him to get some sleep, but when he catches a glimpse of his own bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror, he tells Bobby to fuck off because it's all he can think to do.

He turns off the interstate at an exit for a town he vaguely remembers visiting once ( _he was twelve, they were out of water, sammy was crying_ ). At the first stoplight he comes to, he turns left for no reason. Before he gets to a town, he passes a small church with all its lights on. Without really thinking, he pulls into the tiny dirt parking lot, which is littered with about a dozen cars.

He parks behind the building, near a giant, old tree, but doesn't turn the car off. He sits there for a long while, staring straight ahead at the open field in front of him, eyes straining to see in the fading, pink twilight. He realizes he never turned his headlights on, and that never would have happened if Sammy was here. He swallows, hard, and there's a little involuntary sputter at the end.

He turns off the car, opens the door, gets out. His boots kick up a little dust that would look totally cool if it was daytime and he wasn't clenching his teeth so hard he might chip something, and if there was anyone around to see it. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stalks out into the field. He wishes he smoked cigarettes so at least he'd have something to do with his hands and his mouth. After a few seconds, he licks his lips, and stops.

He looks up at the night sky, picks out all constellations he remembers, and a few he doesn't. (He and Sammy named some one night when Dad left them in the car for a few hours while he pinned down a poltergeist. There was Harry the tiger and Lenny the dinosaur and Tommy the gerbil. He traces them with his eyes, and it stings a little.) He glances over at the church: the silhouettes of people in the windows are walking around, probably saying goodbye, see you tomorrow. As they start filtering out of the building, he wonders, idly, if there really is a god or a God or someone or something out there, above all those pinpricks and black-blue velvet. Something tightens in his chest, and he decides it doesn't really matter.

He stays where he is until the parking lot is empty. It's almost pitch dark, save for the moonlight creeping up over the horizon. He closes his eyes and holds out his hands in front of him and then, for the first time since he was four years old, Dean Winchester falls to his knees and prays.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers.


End file.
